


Sick

by triforcelegends8



Series: Intoxicated [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is a creep, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triforcelegends8/pseuds/triforcelegends8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asks John why he raped him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SanneARBY for beta reading.Comment and let me know what you all think of it and if there are any mistakes we missed! Happy reading!

By the time Sherlock had realized that letting John know he had been affected by the night before was a huge mistake, he _felt_ more than heard or saw John’s presence at the door. A quick glance down at the floor showed a shadow that wasn’t normally there, verifying the detective’s suspicions. Sherlock was breathing loudly and rapidly, and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand to hide his distress. He would never let the man know that he had been affected so thoroughly that he was having panic attacks. He would rather die than let that happen.

Minutes passed as Sherlock stood still where he was, shocked as he was watching the floor where the shadow was slightly wavering, and calmed himself enough to control his breathing.

Then John spoke through the door. “Sherlock?” He said with a slight disappointed tone in his voice. Sherlock gasped when the doorknob wiggled; John tried to open the door. “You all right?” He asked, knowing fully well Sherlock was definitely not all right. “Open the door.” He commanded.

Sherlock only slowly shook his head, his eyes watering in fear of John making another advance to him. Panic gripped him in a death’s clutch as images of John on him and fucking him again tore through his mind. He gasped and stumbled to the floor.

“Sherlock, open the door.” John demanded trying the knob once more. “Let me in. Now.”

The dark-haired man was softly sobbing on the floor when he realized if he didn’t get a hold of himself, things would get worse. He needed to at least _act_ like he hadn’t been affected. He needed to put on a mask. And quickly.

Sherlock slowly got up from the floor and wiped his face, his hand came away damp. He wiped his hand on his trousers and calmed himself. It wouldn’t be the best veil he’s ever put on, but it would do for now. All he needed to do was remain calm and impassive, and he could deal with John for the moment being.

He shook his hands, trying to fling away any physical tells of uneasiness, and walked towards the door. He opened it with a steady hand and a clear head. “Yes?” Sherlock asked innocently.

John was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his lips. He knew Sherlock had been panicking before and that he was wearing a mask now. “Nothing. Just wanted to check on you…” John said with false care.

The two stood in the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom for what seemed like ages but was only seconds. The air between them was tense. John could practically see Sherlock’s fear in spite of his mask and Sherlock could almost taste John’s sense of dominance. It was a predator and his prey both on the edge of fate. And the John wasn’t the one about to fall.

“Just making sure you’re… all right.” John abruptly said, having had his fill of playing with Sherlock for the moment.

When John turned around and walked complacently into the kitchen, Sherlock sighed heavily. Faking his well-being took its toll on Sherlock, more mentally than physically. The whole time Sherlock had images flash through his mind of the night before, and he was in constant fear of John making another advance. And John knew he was afraid. He cursed himself for letting his feelings betray him once again.

Back in his room he could hear his phone ping a text alert. He guessed it was Lestrade, and was proven correct when he checked his phone. He read the man’s plea for help on their current case and thought about if it would behoove Sherlock to get out of the flat for a bit. He decided some London air and a fresh case might do him good, and pocketed his phone, walking towards the door of the flat.

He grabbed his coat and was almost out the door when John called out to him from his turned position in the chair. “Where’re you going?”

Sherlock abruptly halted with hand on the door handle his breath hitching in his throat. “… Out.” He said simply.

“Where?” John demanded, getting up from his chair and making his way quickly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. “Case. Lestrade texted.” His grip on the handle tightened making his knuckles white. What a fool he was! Why didn’t he lie to John about where he was going? The man would no doubt want to join him for whatever reason he had. Sherlock definitely couldn’t avoid the man if John joined him everywhere he went.

“Well then, let’s go.” John said, reaching for his coat.

Before he could grab it, Sherlock’s hand shot out and stopped John’s arm. The reaction was immediate. He could instantly feel John’s anger and sense of superiority, which almost overwhelmed Sherlock’s fear. Quickly, Sherlock spoke. “Uh, I’d rather take care of this one myself. I might not even stay long. It doesn’t seem too interesting or anything, just something to do. It would be pointless for you to go.”

John yanked his arm from Sherlock’s light grasp and shrugged his coat on, in spite of the taller man’s reasoning for him not to go. “Well, I’ll come anyways. No point in me sitting around here doing nothing.” He said with a smile. Fake.

“… All right.” Sherlock acquiesced. He swallowed past the tight lump in his throat and could feel sweat gathering at the top of his brow under John’s hard stare. Going out in public like this would not end out well.

 

* * *

 

 

When the pair arrived at the scene, Sherlock’s nerves were anything but calmed. He could still feel John’s stare on his back, and his own thoughts constantly cycling back to that terrible night did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. The dark-haired man could feel his heart pounding hard in his chest, his blood rushing fast in his ears, and his muscles tense with fear. Although he knew John wouldn’t dare try anything in public, Sherlock still couldn’t find it in himself to calm down.

“’Bout time you two showed up.” said Lestrade when John and Sherlock walked up to the crime scene. “Got a double homicide. Both males, mid-thirties, and from the looks of it, one of ‘em was raped. That’s all we can tell. But for some reason, we can’t find any prints, hair, nothin’. I though you should have a look to see… Hey, Sherlock, you feelin’ all right? You look pale. Well, pal _er_.”

The moment Lestrade had said the word ‘raped’, Sherlock’s normal pallor had gone even whiter. His skin was a sickly white and there was sweat visible on his face. His hands had begun to shake and his already wildly beating heart beat even wilder.

John, on the other hand, had been glaring to Sherlock from beneath his brows and was able to avoid being seen glaring because of Lestrade’s concern with Sherlock’s well-being. His hands were clenched tightly behind him and his whole body was tense and ready for action. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock tell _anyone_ about what he had done to him. It was their little secret, and he doubted if anyone would believe him anyways. But still, it never hurt to be cautious.

When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John cut in before he could get a sound out. “He’s fine, just a little sick. I thought it would be a bad idea if we came here, with his condition and all. We’d better leave.”

“You do look like you’re about to puke, Sherlock. I guess I can send you pictures of the case later. Is there anything I can do though?” the DI asked, directing his question at Sherlock.

“Actually-“ Sherlock started.

“We’re fine. Thanks anyways.” John interrupted, putting a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to give to indication it was time to go. This odd behavior didn’t escape Lestrade’s keen eyes, however. He was about to ask if everything was all right between the two of them, but they had already started walking off. He figured if it was an argument; they could sort it out themselves. And if it wasn’t… he would just call or text Sherlock later to find out if things were really okay.

The dark-haired man and the sandy-haired man made their way to the main street to hail a cab, and climbed in once it had arrived. They sat in silence, John’s mere presence a catalyst to Sherlock’s fearful reactions taking place. The sleuth hadn’t meant to react like that. He honestly thought he would be able to control himself better than that. He had been so close to telling Lestrade something was wrong. He was not okay; he doubted he ever would be.

Sherlock stared straight in front of him while John looked out the window of the cab, occasionally glancing at the other man to make sure he wouldn’t have a more serious breakdown in the car. Thankfully for John, nothing of that sort happened and they arrived at Baker Street in what seemed like seconds. Sherlock quickly exited the vehicle, leaving John to pay, and walked briskly through the door to the flat and up the stairs. Once John paid the cabbie, he followed suit with the taller man, catching him on the second flight of stairs leading up to the flat.

John caught Sherlock by the arm, spun him around and pinned him to the wall by leaning his body against the other man’s, then pinned his hands to the wall with his own.

“What was that all about?” John demanded. His hard gaze made Sherlock turn his head to the side in cowering fear as the shorter man’s breath was heavy on his face and neck. “I said… What. Was that. All. About.” he repeated with his teeth bared.

Sherlock’s mouth was a deep, frightened frown, his breathing through his nose ragged and quick. He didn’t answer.

John smirked, obviously proud of how he affected the other man. “Oh, come now, Sherlock, don’t tell me it’s disturbed you _that_ much?” He paused and stared at the dark-haired man with a half-smile stretching part of his face. His eyelids lowered to cover half of his eyes and he leaned his head forward. His tongue touched Sherlock’s neck before his mouth did and it made the dark-haired man jump slightly and tense his whole body. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat, a choking noise forcing its way out.

“John…” Sherlock whispered past a sob. “Please, I-“ he stopped when John bit down hard on his neck, making the sleuth yelp softly.

“You almost told him didn’t you?” John said between the rough kisses he was placing on Sherlock collarbone. He had begun unbuttoning the man’s shirt and was groping his member through his trousers. When Sherlock failed to answer, only whimpering in response, John bit him again and said, “Didn’t you?”

“N-no. John, please. I wasn’t going to. I promise.” The detective whimpered. He was slowly sinking into the darkness again, and John knew it. He knew he was causing it and he relished it.

“I don’t believe you, Sherlock.”

At that moment, John roughly turned Sherlock around to where the man’s back was facing him and his face was against the wall. He unzipped the taller man’s trousers without much trouble and was beginning to unzip his own when Sherlock began sobbing louder than before.

“Please, John I- I wasn’t going to, I swear. Please!” He begged.

“Tell me the truth, Sherlock, you fucking lying piece of shit. Tell me!” He yelled as he rolled his hips onto the other man’s arse.

“Yes!” Sherlock sobbed. “I was, but I- I changed my mind and I didn’t! I’m sorry, please.” Sherlock knew he shouldn’t show John that the man got to him like this, but with him turned around like this, vulnerable and bare, how could he not? He was thankful that John still had his pants on over his member, but Sherlock’s trousers and pants were pulled down enough to bare his arse.

“That’s what I thought. Why don’t we go to your room, huh?” John said, and Sherlock knew what that meant.

“John, no! Please, I- I’m sorry! I-“

John pulled the knife from his pocket and held it at Sherlock’s throat, where bruises were already forming from the shorter man’s bites. “Go to your room, _now_.”

Sherlock jerkily and slowly nodded and pulled up his trousers enough to walk the rest of the stairs and into his room.

“Lay down.” John commanded once they were in the sleuth’s room.

Sherlock slowly complied, climbing onto the bed with solemnity. John was busy divesting himself of his clothes when Sherlock croaked out a question.

“Why?”

The sandy-haired man stopped. “Why what?” he asked with an annoyed look on his face.

The dark-haired man cleared his throat and clarified. “Why are you… doing this? I thought- I thought-“

“You thought I liked you? That we were friends?” Sherlock nodded. “Then I succeeded in tricking you and earning your trust.” John smiled devilishly and went back to undressing himself.

“But, why?” Sherlock asked again.

Once again John halted his movements and looked at Sherlock with annoyed disbelief.

“Why?” Sherlock nodded again. “Because…” John’s brow furrowed for a moment before answering fully. “Because I wanted to. I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

“For what? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Everything! You’re such an ignorant, selfish prick! I didn’t hate you immediately, but your bloody attitude helped with that! And it’s what I do to people I hate, to people I know I can get to! Don’t feel so special just ‘cuz you got fucked by me.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s what you do’?” The detective asked with wide, fearful eyes.

John looked up once again from his procedure of divesting himself of his clothes with wide eyes. He was obviously surprised at himself that he had said that much. In the moment of trying to shut Sherlock up, he had given away his secret.

Well, since he knew now, what was the point of keeping him completely in the dark about it anymore?

“Since you’ve already drawn your little deductions about it, why don’t you tell me what I mean?” John said with a broad smile and his arms folded over his bare chest.

Of course, Sherlock already knew what John meant the moment he had said it. And he was afraid. John had done this before, multiple times, to people he hates, Sherlock deduced. Though he wasn’t sure how many times he had done this or how he had escaped the law that number of times, Sherlock knew John was about experienced in this act as Sherlock was in being a consulting detective.

Sherlock also knew that John would ensure that he told no one about this. Any of it.

“Well?” the sandy-haired man said impatiently. His weight shifted onto his better leg and he was tapping his finger against his arm. Sherlock cleared his throat and told John of his deductions that John did this for a so-called living. He was a serial rapist, but not just for anyone. Only persons he hated. He even told John how he knew the man would make sure that Sherlock told no one about anything regarding this.

“You’re pretty smart, Sherlock. I can see why you’re the world’s only consulting detective. But can you tell me _why_ I… hate _you_?” John asked with his brows raised and his smile fading into something more serious. Sherlock shook his head.

“Because you’re a fucking git. Because you think you’re the best there is, you think you can do anything you want just because you can solve some things the police can’t? I just bloody hate you! Why don’t you figure out why, huh? You think you’re beyond feeling emotions and all? Well, I sure proved you wrong, didn’t I? By raping you. By fucking you until you begged for mercy, until you cried, until you were sore. Remember that, Sherlock?” John asked while undoing the belt of his trousers. All this time during the man’s rant, Sherlock was being to sob and could feel the lump of fear in is throat spread throughout his whole body. He was numb with fear, his heart pounding deep and quick like a frightened rabbit.

“Oh yes, you remember, don’t you?” He said mockingly as he climbed into the bed and over Sherlock, who couldn’t do anything but lay down onto his back as John began to lube up. “And I’ll make you remember even better tonight, dear Sherlock.” As John descended onto the dark-haired man with rough bites and kisses and harsh thrusts, Sherlock felt he could be sick right there. He knew John was sick as well, though not physically. There was no way around this, and Sherlock knew it. John knew it. They both knew the other was sick and there was no way to fix either of them.


End file.
